


Chapter And Verse

by theianitor



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Autumn, Gen, M/M, Spooky, Suspicions, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theianitor/pseuds/theianitor
Summary: Racing was a high-stakes, high-adrenaline environment; sometimes people were a little weird. That was just how it was. Not against the rules. George forgave and forgot, most of the time.But when he started noticing it, he couldn’t help but think there was something off about Sebastian Vettel.
Relationships: Jenson Button/Sebastian Vettel (hinted)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20
Collections: Fear





	Chapter And Verse

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my contribution for Fear, guys. :) Hope you like it. <3

George never wanted to be _that guy_. He never wanted to be the one who got known for complaining, or the one who overreacted and was deemed ‘dramatic’ or hard to work with. He knew people joked about him knowing the rules by page and paragraph, and he was fine with that. But he never wanted people to think he used it to be _that guy_.

Racing was a high-stakes, high-adrenaline environment; sometimes people were a little weird. That was just how it was. Not against the rules. Everything from slightly strange race-day rituals to maybe swearing a bit much, George forgave and forgot, most of the time.

But when he started noticing it, he couldn’t help but think there was something _off_ about Sebastian Vettel.

A four-time world champion had a lot of leeway, as far as George was concerned. The man wasn’t successful by accident, so if Seb had little eccentricities, like his lucky coins and such, George didn’t judge.

Some things you kind of had to be suspicious of though.

Sebastian had a reputation as a friendly guy, but a lot of the time he seemed to keep to himself. George thought about him as a friendly guy too, he just wasn’t entirely sure what he even based that assessment on when he tried to pin-point it.

Seb was constantly in shades. That wasn’t conclusive, but there was something about it. Especially coupled with how he always seemed happier in dreary, cloudy weathers, when the others’ moods soured with the worry of a rainy weekend.

And everyone had a PA, but not quite like Britta. Britta worked like she wasn’t working _for_ Seb, but like she was almost an extension of Seb. A lot of the time they didn’t even speak to each other, she just seemed to _know_ what her driver needed and when he needed it.

The final straw came during one of the random drug tests they were sometimes subjected to. George was called in alongside Vettel and Perez. Sergio was called on first, then a nurse came for Sebastian. But as they were walking down the hall to the next test room, Sebastian said something and touched her arm, and she froze. Then she looked at him like she had something to ask. He smiled. She smiled too, but more like she was trying to copy him than actually being happy. Then she meekly led him to the end of the hall and opened the locked door at the end, which led outside. She shuffled back into one of the examination rooms and disappeared.

George became sure Sebastian was doping.

Doping wasn’t something you just accused someone of though. It was a very serious matter. George thought about it for four days, mulling it over, back and forth – what else could it be? The worst conclusion came on day five, when he realized that the FIA must be in on it. Or at least part of them, since the nurse had helped Sebastian out.

That left him feeling stumped. What was he supposed to do if people within the FIA already knew? Where could he go then?

On the morning of day six he came to another realization. If he had to go past the FIA, then he’d have to go public. Then he’d need a name bigger than his own. He’d have to get evidence himself, and then find someone he trusted, and involve them too.

That was how George found himself in full Williams team gear, nodding and smiling his way into the Ferrari motorhome, ready to spill his rehearsed little story of delivering something for Sebastian if anyone asked.

He never had to say a word beyond “hello”. He supposed being young and still a relative nobody helped. He felt like a spy as he looked around, his completely useless printed list of the qualifying times from last race in his hand. Nobody was watching as he slipped inside.

George stood still in the middle of the room, looking around. It looked normal. Completely normal. Small closet, clothes rack with four racing suits hung and ready, fold-up bed for rest and massages. Mini-fridge, small desk. A few number 5-caps stacked up, a few signed promo-cards.

Suddenly he felt small. Very small, and very stupid. Why had he come? What was he expecting to find?

He steeled himself. No. He’d gotten this far. _If_ Sebastian was doing something illegal, someone needed to stop him. George lifted a few of the papers on the desk, opened the closet door and moved the shoes aside to check the floor of it, then he felt along the top shelf. He unfolded the bed and then folded it back up again, checking the back of it. The room was small and it didn’t take him long to look at everything and find nothing.

Then he was left staring at the mini-fridge. It was small, white, standard. Nothing special at all. He opened the door.

Inside the door there were two bottles of water and a red Ferrari sport bottle. On the top shelf there was some kind white metal stand, like something you’d put tiny plates in to dry them, but it was empty. George figured it saw frequent use however; there was a rust-smudge along the wall next to it.

He was about to pull the metal rack out to check behind it when he heard two people walking by right outside the door. They were laughing and speaking in Italian, and the door to the room next to Seb’s opened and closed.

George blinked. The reality of what he was doing crashed in on him like a tidal wave of Ferrari red. He slammed the door to the fridge shut and hurried out. It wasn’t until he was back at the hotel with only blurry memories of how he’d gotten there that he remembered he’d left his papers somewhere in Seb’s room.

The race weekend passed in a rush. George couldn’t be sure, but he rather thought Sebastian was being especially vigilant, not as happy and friendly as he was usually perceived.

It was a quiet week between races and by the next Sunday evening, George was tired. Aside from all the usual work, he’d been doing his best to keep an eye on Sebastian. This weekend Sebastian had changed his habit however, and was frequently around other people. He seemed to be constantly flitting from person to person, meaning George felt Seb had less of a chance to sneak off, but which also meant he himself was constantly being distracted by others.

As he was walking through the paddock with nothing but the cold wind for company, he finally recognized he felt doubt more than anything else. It was baseless to accuse Sebastian of anything as serious as meddling with doping, especially given that he’d found nothing but a smudge to support his suspicions.

He hung his head as he walked, feeling guilty. It would make no sense to apologize, having not done anything wrong – apart from sneaking in to Sebastian’s room – but he felt the need to make it right. He let his steps lead him between two motorhomes to check if anyone might still be there. It was dark early today. The year was drawing to an end, and the seasons and weather didn’t give a toss about racecars or their drivers.

It was even darker between the two structures, metal and glass just making weird glimmers, not really lighting his way. He thought he saw something move behind the window to his right, and stopped dead in his tracks. It was completely dark in the little lobby beyond the windows, nobody should be in there. He could see the shadowy outlines of tables with chairs on top of them. It was closed.

Then he saw movement again.

Something was in the corner, furthest from his window, and he crouched down on reflex. It was embarrassing to think he might have walked in on somebody. But who would be dumb enough to look for privacy _here_? With that in mind, he reached up to the ledge by the window and looked into the dim lobby.

He could see someone’s back, and someone else was crowded into the corner in front of them. At first George thought they were making out, then he saw that the person with their back to him had their hand over the other person’s mouth. Their head was turned to the side. That wasn’t making out. What the hell was going on?

George cupped his hands to the cold glass, squinting to see more clearly. There wasn’t a lot of movement, but suddenly the one in the corner was pushed aside and slumped down to the floor, like their legs didn’t carry, like they’d been supported only by the person in front of them.

It was Lando.

Lando was kneeling on the floor. Even though it was dark, George could see that he was breathing heavily, slowly, his shoulders rising and falling like he was working to get his breathing back to normal. The other person touched his shoulder. Slowly, laboriously, Lando got to his feet. He swayed slightly. The one with their back to the window said something, words fully stopped by the glass, but Lando started shuffling off towards the entrance. He went outside, found a chair, sat down, and then his head fell forward and his whole body seemed to go limp.

He looked like he was sleeping.

George stared after him. This wasn’t normal. What had just happened? He stared at Lando for so long he’d almost forgotten the other person in the room, but now they moved, drawing his eye.

They stood up straighter, adjusting clothing and wiping their mouth with their sleeve. Then they turned. Unnaturally bright eyes stared straight at the window, an unmistakable snarl forming on still-bloodstained lips.

George turned and ran. He sprinted the few steps out into the lane, looking both ways and seeing no-one, the only sound his own sneakers against the pavement. In a second, he was on the other side, darting in between two of the other mobile buildings set up for the racing weekend. He didn’t know nor care which. He dodged a fire escape, almost lost his footing, and came out on the other side a little unsteady. He could see the parking lot. He just needed to get to his car.

He ran face first into something and it sent him sprawling, his palm scraping painfully against the ground, his knee hitting something hard.

“George?”

Wincing and holding on to his smarting hand, George looked up.

Jenson looked, to say the least, surprised to see him.

“Are you okay?”

“No!” George said quickly, looking at the darkness he’d just come out of. “No, I’m not, he’s after me, I have to-”

“Hold on, wait, _who_ is after you, what’s going on?” Jenson took hold of George’s arm and helped him up, and then kept a hold on him like he was afraid George would fall over again.

“Please, I have to...”

“You’re hurt!” Jenson exclaimed, snapping up George’s wrist, staring at his hand. He was right. There were scrapes where he’d caught himself, dark little beads of blood trickling up through his broken skin.

“Let’s get this washed up and you can explain what’s going on.” Jenson steered him towards the nearest motorhome. He used his passcard to get in, and George looked around – in spite of the situation, his mind found time to reflect that he'd never been in the general press motorhome before.

Jenson led him into a smaller room and flicked the lights on, sitting him down on a couch. He got a little green first-aid bag off the holder on the wall, opened it, and pulled out an alcohol swab, tearing it open.

“This might sting a bit,” he said, taking hold of George’s wrist again and making a face as he dabbed the swab down. George hardly noticed.

“We have to go, he’s crazy,” he said, feeling they couldn’t move fast enough. He understood, on an intellectual level, that he needed care, that what he was thinking was _insane_ , but at the same time his heart was in his throat and his head was swirling with panic.

“He hurt Lando!”

“What are you talking about?” Jenson looked worried.

“It’s... I saw him, he hurt Lando, he’s back there and he saw me and he... I’m pretty sure he was coming after me.”

“Who, George?”

“Sebastian.”

Jenson’s movement stuttered. Then he looked up, meeting George’s eyes.

“What?” His voice was heavy now, serious. George knew how he felt, but it needed to be said. He needed help. Jenson had been head of the GPDA and had always been good about rules and things.

“Sebastian, he bit Lando. He bit him hard, there was blood,” George did his best to meet Jenson’s gaze, to ensure that he understood how serious this was.

“It was like he thought he was a vampire.”

The words were met with compact silence. Jenson didn’t move a muscle, didn’t blink, didn’t keep dabbing at George’s scrape. George prepared himself for incredulity. Maybe even ridicule. At the very least, more questions.

The corner of Jenson’s mouth twitched up. As the door opened behind him to reveal Sebastian, the darkness in the room beyond seemingly flowing in through the now-open door, George stared back at Jenson in a panic and found he couldn’t look away from Jenson’s entirely black eyes.

“Oh but George, he is,” Jenson said calmly, his crooked smile twisted into something terrible now, sharp and dangerous, his voice already sounding far away and George completely stuck in place.

“And you thought he was the only one.”

\- The End -

**Author's Note:**

> All in good fun, as per usual. :)  
> Thank you for the read! <3


End file.
